Chapter 3 #2
I step out as well, scanning the parking lot one last time before motioning for her to follow me. My hand hovers near the small of her back as we walk, not quite touching but close enough that she’ll know I’m there.
Inside the store, the bright fluorescent lights and cheery holiday music feel like a stark contrast to the unease simmering beneath the surface.
I grab a cart and keep a steady pace as we navigate the aisles, my eyes darting between her and the people around us.
Most are harmless—parents wrangling kids, an elderly couple debating which cereal to buy—but I don’t take chances.
Tory walks beside me, her fingers lightly brushing the edge of the cart as if grounding herself. “Do you always do this?” she asks, glancing up at me with those big blue eyes.
“Do what?”
“Look at everyone like they might be a threat.”
Her observation is sharper than I expected, and I let out a low chuckle. “It’s part of the job. Being prepared for anything.”
Her lips press into a thoughtful line, and she doesn’t push further, her attention shifting to the shelves lined with pancake mix and syrup. I grab a box of her beloved pancake mix and toss it into the cart, along with a few other staples.
When we pass the bakery section, her gaze lingers on the display of muffins, and I catch the faintest flicker of longing. Without a word, I grab a pack of blueberry muffins and add them to the cart.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she murmurs, her cheeks turning pink.
“Figured you might want a snack before breakfast,” I reply casually, though the sight of her blushing makes something tighten in my chest.
As we approach the checkout, I remain hyper-aware of our surroundings, scanning the area for anything out of place. It’s a routine I’ve perfected over years in this line of work, but with Tory, it feels different. More personal.
Once we’re back in the truck and on the road again, I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. She’s quiet, her hands resting on her backpack, but there’s a softness to her expression now, a trace of gratitude or maybe even trust.
I’m positive we weren’t followed, but I still won’t let my guard down. Not here. Not ever. And especially not with Tory.
The crazy part is, she’s already more than a job to me. I don’t know how or when it happened—maybe the moment I saw her, or maybe it’s been building since she started talking about her life with that mix of passion and vulnerability. Either way, I know this isn’t just about protecting her anymore.
It’s about keeping her safe because she matters—to me. More than she probably ever will realize.
By the time we arrive at the safe house, the sun hangs lower in the sky, casting a golden glow over the ocean that stretches endlessly behind the property.
The house itself is impressive—a sprawling structure perched on a bluff, its white stucco walls and terracotta roof blending perfectly with the tropical surroundings.
Palm trees sway gently in the breeze, framing the house like a postcard.
“Wow,” she breathes, her voice laced with awe as she steps out of the truck. Her big blue eyes widen, taking in the grand facade of the house and the shimmering ocean beyond it.
Not as wow as her.
I grab her bags from the back of the truck, slinging them over my shoulder before motioning for her to follow me. “This is home for now,” I say, leading the way up the stone steps and unlocking the front door.
Inside, the cool air greets us, and her footsteps echo softly against the tiled floors of the expansive foyer.
The space opens into a great room, its design modern but inviting, with long white couches flanking a glass coffee table.
The back wall is made entirely of sliding glass doors, revealing a lanai that overlooks the ocean.
Beyond it, the waves crash rhythmically against the shore, the sound soothing yet powerful.
Her gaze bounces from the furniture to the view, her lips parting slightly. “This is beautiful,” she says, her voice tinged with disbelief, as if she can’t quite process the elegance of the place.
“So are you.” The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I clamp my jaw shut and force myself to look away before I say something I can’t take back. Instead, I head toward the hallway, my boots scuffing lightly against the tiled floor. “Come on,” I call over my shoulder. “I’ll show you your room.”
She follows me down the hallway, her steps hesitant as she takes in the artwork lining the walls and the subtle scent of salt lingering in the air.
When we reach the master bedroom, I push the door open and set her bags down on the massive king-sized bed.
The room is just as impressive as the rest of the house, with white furnishings accented by pops of blue and yellow.
Large windows frame another breathtaking view of the ocean, and the en-suite bathroom is visible through an open door, its marble finishes gleaming.
“I figure you can have the master,” I tell her, gesturing to the room.
“Oh, I don’t need the master,” she protests, shaking her head as her eyes dart around the space. Her fingers brush over the edge of the bedspread, her touch light and tentative. “This is too much. Really.”
“Nonsense,” I reply, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe. “You need to be comfortable.”
Comfortable. With me. On top of you. Screaming my name until the walls shake.
I shake my head sharply, forcing those thoughts out before they spiral further.
My gaze falls on her again, and I’m struck by how perfectly she fits here—her golden hair catching the soft afternoon light, her curves accentuated by the way she stands, slightly unsure of herself but utterly captivating.
This is going to be torture. Pure, unrelenting torture.
“You sure this is okay?” she asks, breaking me out of my thoughts.
“It’s more than okay,” I say, my voice gruffer than I intend. “This is your space for however long we’re here.”
I turn toward the doorway, needing to put some distance between us before my control snaps. “I’ll be down the hall if you need anything,” I add, my back to her. “Get settled in. I’ll start dinner in a bit.”
As I leave the room, I run a hand through my hair and take a deep breath, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t shake the image of her in that room, her soft curves against the stark white of the bedding.
I hope this time goes by quickly because every second in this house with her is a battle against my own desires. And I’m not sure how long I can keep winning.